


Pick Your Favorite

by LitheLies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Light Angst, POV Draco Malfoy, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23168893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitheLies/pseuds/LitheLies
Summary: A series of short ficlets based on Dramione; from Hogwarts to married life, from fluff to smut. But as always, angst.{ Draco POV | General Family Cuteness | Oneshot }
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 25
Kudos: 156





	1. Pick Your Favorite (Parents - Fluff)

**Author's Note:**

> I accept prompts and have a tag dedicated to short ideas or [ficlets](https://lithelies.tumblr.com/tagged/%3B-%28-forever-moored-%29).
> 
> This particular work comes with a smackerel of angst but that's just how it is; cross-posted from [tumblr](https://lithelies.tumblr.com/post/612604829150429184/lithelies-pick-your-favorite-prompted-by).

“Father.”

The tone was so matter-of-fact that Draco had to smile.

“Father,” Scorpius echoed, his impatience palpable.

“Son,” Draco mimicked back, a fine leather book rested against his desk. He turned to see Scorpius by the door. He had his arms crossed and his brow furrowed.

“I have a question.”

Draco settled the book onto the desk to swivel, so that he might afford Scorpius his full attention. The boy was only six or so but he did his best to affect maturity. It was strange to see himself reflected in the boy, his eyes, his light hair. He was left to wonder how his father had ever allowed himself into the shadows and Dark Arts, as if ignorant of their nature.

Lucius knew better, yet he didn’t —

Draco rolled his jaw to catch himself. He was almost thirty. He couldn’t dwell on his father for the rest of his life, no matter how hard he strove away from the man.

“Well?” Draco said with a wave of his hand. “I don’t promise any answers, but I’m curious.”

Scorpius nodded as if he understood. It was the same sort of nod his mother would give to be polite, to mind her tongue. “I wanted to know what your favorite animal was. Mine is a dragon, so you can’t pick that. That’s my one.”

Draco blinked out of surprise, as he’d never really had a favorite animal. The peacocks had once been something of a token, his childhood spent in pursuit of them on his broomstick. But now when he thought of peacocks, all he could picture was their albino rib cages split open as they dripped blood onto the limestone gravel.

“I want to draw you a picture, and I need to know. Mother said you liked dragons, but…” Scorpius pouted, his brow furrowed. “You need to pick something else.”

Draco tried not to laugh. It wasn’t at him or his expense. It was just strange overall, as he’d held the boy in his arms a short few years ago. Draco adjusted in his seat, a weight in his stomach as he tried not to think about time and all that it wrought. He waved at Scorpius to enter, as the boy knew better than to barrel into Draco’s study. He often had to bring artifacts home to study, given they trusted him enough to operate from his estate.

It had taken time, but it meant that Hermione could focus on her work.

Being the Minister of Magic and all.

“My favorite animal,” Draco said with a hum. “Well, let’s see. I’ll give you a hint.”

“No, just tell me.”

“They have two legs.”

Scorpius thought, his nose scrunched tight. He had a softness to his features that made Draco wonder if he’d ever grow into the Malfoy angles. Or would he end up more like Hermione’s father, rugged and rounded with sleek white-blonde hair.

“They’re quite loud too. Inquisitive.”

“Anquisative,” Scorpius repeated, as he tended to do as if he understood.

“ _Inquisitive_ ,” Draco repeated. “It means they like to learn things.”

“Inquisative,” Scorpius repeated, as cocky as his mother and himself combined. “But, I like to learn things.”

“Do you?” Draco echoed, a smile spread across his lips. “And do you also have two legs?”

“I do,” Scorpius said, mortified by the realization. “But I’m not loud.”

“Oh no?” Draco asked with a growl to his tone before he lunged forward. He snatched the boy up and tickled at his ribs with light fingers. “I beg to differ.”

Scorpius wailed with laughter, loud enough that Draco might go deaf. But of all the screams and shrieks he’d heard in his life, he’d be glad if these were his last. He allowed the boy a moment to breathe, to cuddle him closer to his chest. He was almost too big to hold, but Draco made do.

“You’re my favorite.”

“But I’m not an animal,” Scorpius mumbled.

“I beg to differ,” Draco repeated as he caught Hermione in the corner of his eye, pressed against the door frame.

“I heard screams,” Hermione said in a soft voice as she tried to keep her voice light.

Draco’s breath hitched as she approached, to bury herself into the hug that Draco offered. He had enough length in his limbs to gather them both close. His father never hugged him much, a fact he’d never minded.

Not until he’d seen Scorpius nestled in faint grey blankets, the soft pale blush across his fat little cheeks. He swallowed hard, tension rolled across Hermione’s shoulders as she relaxed. She burrowed into his throat while Scorpius toyed with his mother’s hair.

It couldn’t last forever, but he’d take what he could get.


	2. Weighted Odds (Hogwarts - Fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weighted Odds // Fluff // Set vaguely after Hogwarts.

Deception had become so familiar to Draco, he considered it a second language. While he hadn’t always been skilled in it, he’d learned. It took time and patience, along with the help of his aunt… But to deceive was to succeed.

To hold all the cards meant power. And Draco thrived in power.

That was the story. That was how it was meant to go. But as he stared down Hermione, her face lit in candlelight, he found a new story. One where she dug into his chest and pulled out his heart.

As if this were just a game.

As if it weren’t cruelty.

“Draco,” she said, her voice like a knife.

“Don’t,” he snapped, his eyes narrowed before him.

“It’s your own fault.” She didn’t even sound sorry. Not even a little.

Draco rolled his jaw before he sat back into the couch. He wouldn’t lose. He wasn’t meant to lose – but he lost. He lost everything, every time. He lost his morals, his principles, he lost the war and now he’d lost himself to her.

His heart, his mind, his time, his patience.

And she now had Mayfair.

“This is a stupid game,” he said beneath his breath. He didn’t have any paper money left and she’d caught his sleight of hand. He had tried to conjure some, then summon some… And she noticed both times because she had an eagle eye and a vicious streak.

“You wanted to try out a Muggle board game.”

“Yes, and as I said, it’s stupid.”

“It is,” Hermione said with a faint smile. “It was originally meant to provoke suspicion in children so they’d question landlords…”

“It’s unfair,” he added.

“You rolled a six,” she said with a wave of her hand.

He mimicked her words back to her, a sneer across his lips.

“You were laughing five minutes ago when I landed on your railroad.”

“Don’t remind me,” he snapped his eyes shut. He had landed on a property tax and lost all but twenty quid.

“You’re just upset because you’re about to lose.”

Draco remained still, the crackle of the fire all that he could hear. That, and the rustle of her robes as she moved across the room though he couldn’t see her.

“How about,” she said, her voice gentle. “I’ll let you give me a kiss.”

“As payment?” Draco’s left eye opened to see her as she slumped onto the couch next to him.

“Sure,” she said, her tone dubious. “Though the morality of paying your rent with a kiss is a little questionable in practice.”

“You’re right,” he said with an even sigh. “I should at least go down on you, it is almost six hundred quid.”

Hermione’s face scrunched up at him as she leaned in to kiss him; to shut him up before he suggested anything further. He kissed her with all the frustration he’d built as he’d watched her build tiny plastic houses.

He had learned the game quickly but it didn’t make a difference.

It came down to chance – 

“Put it back.” Hermione had pulled back, her hand around his wrist.

“Worth a shot,” Draco dropped her pile of hundred-pound notes.

The board was left untouched after that, while Hermione became wholly touched, his lips at her throat and his hand beneath her shirt.


	3. Late Night (Argent - Deleted Scene)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deleted Scene for [Argent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674547/chapters/54195766) (I wrote it but it’s just a non-specific scene from my Head Boy/Head Girl, pre-relationship!)

“Hermione, what did you get for the last question?”

Draco anticipated the flutter of parchment matched with the awful inhale she always did before she gave a long answer.

But neither came.

No answer sounded from his study partner, the girl who happened to share every class with him. The same girl who had been crowned Head Girl, who earned her title.

Unlike Draco, who had been given the title of Head Boy as a test. It couldn’t be anything else, given his track record. He looked up from his answers for Arithmancy, his lips pursed.

“Hermione?” He asked as he turned his focus to her.

And she was asleep.

He frowned.

Her face had come to rest against her forearm while her other arm splayed over her book. He had assumed she’d been quiet as she read, and she didn’t like to be interrupted on her first read-through of any text.

He shook out his wrist to see his watch, which flickered back with runic silver light; it was half-past midnight.

“Hermione,” he repeated with a caution to his tone. “Wake up.”

But she didn’t budge. She was so quiet that he feared she was dead. But her nose twitched and his chest tightened. He was torn between the softness of the twitch and the desire to see it again.

Draco reached across to prod her with his finger, to which she groaned and frowned. He withdrew his hand, petrified. He didn’t want to deal with her grumpy and freshly awake.

He could scare her awake. He could make a loud sound or shake her. Something like that would see her awake. But she often looked tired –

Perhaps it would be better if he left her to sleep.

But he couldn’t leave her slumped over the table.

Draco looked at the shared lounge for the Heads of each house. There were Rodger and Avery, but they’d not bother her.

It would take two seconds...

Draco rounded the table to grab her, one arm beneath her neck with the other behind her knees. He lifted her with as much care as he could, and to his dismay, she remained asleep. She was too light, in his opinion. She was as easy to carry as several broomsticks stacked atop one another.

He’d tell her off about it when she was awake; but then again, he didn’t want to pry. Perhaps she had always been thin. He’d never paid such close attention to her before, no more than a passing glance at her arse if she bent over for a book.

She’d been too small then, too.

It was a short walk between their communal table and the couch. A short enough walk that when he laid her down, his chest tightened. He could have carried her to their shared room, but he didn’t like the visual; Draco, carrying an asleep girl to his room.

It wouldn’t do.

All he wanted was for her to be comfortable and to sleep well. He didn’t want her to wake up strewn across a table, to have her back ache and her chest hurt from the angle of it.

He stood over her, unsure if it was better to run or to stay with her.

But she was just asleep in their dorms after all. It wasn’t as if she were in danger out here.

Draco took a seat as he decided it was creepier to stand.

But his seat was comfortable and the room was warm. He folded his arms over his chest and settled backward.

The roar of the fire had fizzled out by morning. Draco felt sweat through his thick robes, as he’d passed out fully dressed. He grimaced to himself as he stood, his arms angled outward to spare himself the sensation.

Hermione was still fast asleep on the couch, curled against herself beneath the conjured blanket. She’d not had her full robes on, and he --

He shouldn’t care half as much as he did, but he did care.

“Hermione,” he said in a soft voice. “Get up.”

Hermione snapped awake as if she’d been shocked, her hands flat on the couch and her chest heaved beneath her vest.

“You’re safe -- ” Draco said out of instinct.

“My essay,” she panicked. “I need to check it,” she fumbled through the blankets, her face red in the shadowed morning.

Draco watched her with complete confusion, his lip drawn back against his teeth.

Hermione stood by the table with their abandoned supplies. She packed two books beneath her arm and snatched her essay up, to read and re-read it. Her fingers hovered by her lips as she read as if to obscure her lips. She read in her head but she always moved her lips.

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“You should have woken me up,” she snapped.

Draco’s brows jumped, his cheeks so warm he was sure he’d turned pink.

Hermione stared at the couch, then at him, as if she’d not put two and two together. But then her expression relaxed as she let her essay drop, her panic shelved for now.

“Everyone needs sleep,” he said in a thin voice. “Even you.”

“Did you carry me to the couch?”

Draco shot her a nasty look as if he were being accused of a crime.

She folded her essay and slipped it into her slimmer textbook. She turned her gaze back to him, a deep pensive look that he wanted no part of. He turned towards their shared dorms, his shoulders tensed and his gaze averted.

“Thank you.”

Draco paused, to look over his shoulder at her.

“I’m glad you got some sleep too,” she said with a drawn smile, her eyes narrowed at him. “As you said, we all need sleep, yourself included.”

Draco gave a pinched smile in return but it felt unnatural. He didn’t feel like he was meant to smile, in truth. It seemed like the sort of thing she would do for those around her, to smile and reassure people. He just wanted to shower, to tear off his robes and scrub off his sweat.

He wanted to forget the weight of her in his arms and that little twitch in her nose.


	4. An Eighth of Comfort (Post-Hogwarts - Fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a prompt on the Dept. of Fanfiction that was essentially “go comfort her” – and then I wrote this. It was meant to be a short one-shot. But I’m a fool. (There’s a kiss – so rated T for teen?)
> 
> One-Shot

Malfoy Manor had never seen so many Muggleborns in one night before.

But Lucius Malfoy had agreed to host a charity event that Friday evening. It was for those affected by the Second Wizarding War. It hadn't been so much an offer on his part as an expectation. It was a chance for the Malfoy family to make a statement; to show their colors, as it were. And while Draco didn't care either way, each portrait he walked by seemed to. It varied from questions about the mental well-being of his father to outright slurs.

He walked by them all, unaffected.

"A disgrace," a portrait of his great-great-uncle whispered.

"Disgusting," a young woman said, though he didn't recognize her.

“No more than you,” Draco said back to her, his lips curled at the edges. “Your frame’s tarnished.”

The young witch hissed at him but he’d walked far enough away to miss the specifics. He wasn’t in a hurry, but he might be noticed if he stayed away too long. He had sneaked out from the party downstairs to smoke as Pansy was being insufferable. She stuck to him alongside Blaise and Theo. They were the remnants of Slytherin house, and while she was his ex-girlfriend, she reinforced their break-up as a solid decision on his part.

The stale corner of Slytherins was agony. He was trapped in the gossip of the past, framed by thin ranks. There were so few of them left and even less pure-blooded folks. What little social standing he’d have been owed generations ago didn’t exist now. All he had now was a world furious that he still existed in it.

And so Draco needed a cigarette, alone.

He needed to be alone altogether, but he was a host. He had done his best to socialize but everyone gave him that same disbelieving gaze. As if every gesture of his arm would result in a Killing Curse. That once-over look as if they'd spot a wand in his hand. The continued tension as he tried to speak to them, to strike a conversation about their work.

Draco rubbed at the corners of his mouth and exhaled into the curve of his palm.

Maybe he'd stay out for the rest of the night. His parents couldn't scold him, he was an adult. He rounded the corner and jogged up the second-story stairs, upward.

(He could have Apparated, but walking gave him an excuse to be away longer.)

And he almost succeeded; he almost sneaked out for his cigarette, free of the festivities.

But then he heard a stifled sob in a disused drawing-room.

"A girl ran in there, in tears."

Draco's head whipped around, his eyes narrowed.

A beautiful silver frame hung on the wall with fae fire suspended around it in small sconces. It was his grandmother’s portrait, who looked so much like his mother he'd almost thought it was her. But her hair was a dark grey with thick white streaks from each temple. But she had the same thin brows and small lips.

“What?”

"Are you stupid, boy?"

"No," Draco said in a low voice, his cheeks warm. "What girl? What are you on about?"

Druella blinked, slow and emphatic. Her eyelids rested heavier over her eyes, which emphasized the weight of her stare.

"What did she look like?"

"I would hope your mother raised you better than to help a young lady based on aesthetics"

"No, I..." Draco trailed off. He leaned sideways to peek into the room and it took no more than two seconds to confirm. He had seen Granger turn up with her hair coiled around the back of her head.

It looked like a seashell, woven with silver.

And that was all he could see of her over the back of the couch. It was high enough that the rest of her remained obscured, though he saw her hands were over her face.

He dipped back, tension strained across his features.

"You are the host, are you not."

"I," Draco hesitated. "Yeah, I am."

"And your guest is crying."

"Yeah, but -- you really expect me to go in there, to comfort her?"

"If someone at your party has caused a guest to cry..." Druella said, her voice thinned at the edges. "It is your responsibility to ensure nothing untoward has happened."

"Certainly," he said with a snort. "But it's Hermione Granger. If someone hurt her, she'd have sent them to St. Mungo's."

Druella watched him with sharp eyes. They glittered despite the matte medium of her portrait.

"What?"

"You spoke about this Granger girl often," Druella said. "As a boy. I remember."

Draco narrowed his eyes at his grandmother, though he doubted she noticed.

"What are you waiting for?" She said, her tone impatient.

"Strange time for you to develop compassion for Muggleborns," Draco said to make up for his inaction.

Druella glared at Draco and for a moment he forgot she was a painting. He expected her to pinch his ear or send a light curse his way. That was what his mother did to him when he misbehaved or spoke out of turn. But the woman was a portrait wrought of paint. All she had was her piercing glare and matriarchal edge.

"She's crying, what do I do?" Draco said, his voice flat.

"Go comfort her," Druella said as if it were obvious.

"How do I do that?"

"Start with hugs."

"With what?" Draco scoffed. "You, suggesting I hug a Muggleborn?"

“I’ve heard the talk in this house — about the shift in sensibilities. I want my portrait to remain,” Druella narrowed her eyes at Draco.

“So you’re being nice to Muggleborns in the hope of maintaining your position in a hallway?” Draco waved a hand around the hallway, his brows furrowed at the woman.

"I've seen truer travesties in this home than an act of kindness towards — a Muggleborn."

Draco's throat bobbed. He dipped his head as he turned, unable to look at his grandmother much longer. It was a painting, after all. Their self-awareness set an upper limit. But given this was an ancestral home and she'd died from natural causes...

It left her astute and Draco at a loss for words.

The shadows in the drawing-room set him on edge. He cleared his throat as he walked, his hands loose and in front of him. He hadn't drawn his wand, which he needed her to see.

Granger had a strange, watery smile on her lips.

"You were crying," Draco said, his voice sharp. "Why?"

"Who were you talking to?"

Draco froze.

"I heard you speaking with someone," she said, her voice soft. "About me."

Draco felt as if his stomach had hit his knees.

Hermione squinted up at him, her arms crossed.

"My grandmother's portrait asked me to check on you."

Hermione continued to pick him apart as if a deeper truth might arise. She moved to stand, her arms loose by her sides. He thought she might leave, but instead, she dragged him into a hug. It was warm and determined. She didn’t smell of alcohol, but she must have drunk. She was too warm for any sober person — drunks always had that heat to them. Those hot flashes, the same sort that ran through her arms and into his chest.

His arms remained up, bracketed around the open-air beside her.

"You called me a Muggleborn."

"Well yes," Draco said, his chest tight. "You are a Muggleborn, aren't you."

"And you said I'd put someone in St. Mungo's -- that isn't very nice."

"Hermione," Draco said, his brows furrowed. He grabbed her by the shoulders, to pry her back. "If someone had hurt you in any measurable way, you'd have made it known."

Hermione's expression flickered, miserable back to pleased. "I'm glad you think I'm so violent." 

"I'm saying that I wouldn't step in to defend you or your honor," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

(Though situation depending, he would do that.)

(He was the host, after all.)

"I would hardly call Ron being insensitive a reason to send him to the hospital."

"Oh," Draco said, his voice even. "As if you need a reason to curse him."

"Don't," Hermione laughed, her face scrunched. "It wasn't even worth the tears let alone a curse."

Draco's gaze sharpened down at her, his jaw tensed against the words he wouldn't say. It wasn't his place to pick apart whatever had happened between her and Weasley. They had arrived together, alongside Harry and Ginny.

"Thank you," Hermione said, her face red beneath the shadows.

Draco flexed a rough smile at her, as it felt strange to smile at her. "I'm going outside for a minute, to smoke," he gestured behind him with a loose fist, his head lofted to the side. "Care to join me?"

"Oh, no," Hermione shook her head. "I should head back down."

"Hermione?"

Draco flinched at the sound, Weasley's voice thick with worry. As if he'd not waited fifteen minutes to find the girl. He didn't turn as Hermione stepped around him, her hand on his bicep as she passed.

"I didn't mean it," Weasley mumbled.

"I know," Hermione said in an unconvinced voice.

Draco didn't turn to watch them leave but he listened to their footsteps. He remained in the drawing-room, in the silence. His gaze fixed onto the dead fireplace, packed with ash and framed with marble.

Their voices trailed away, down the hall and to the stairs. He knew the halls well enough to track it based on sound. 

"Bested by a Weasley," Druella said in a low, heavy voice. "How disappointing."

Draco bit down the urge to curse her out, the stupid old bitch in her hawthorn frame. He instead stormed down the hallway to the balcony.

"Draco!"

Draco turned, his eyes narrowed.

Hermione was in a light jog towards him, her face red.

"Something the matter?"

"I wanted to apologize," she huffed. "I realized, I hugged you... I'm sorry if that was too much, or too far."

And Draco shook his head, his eyes narrowed down at her.

"Oh," Hermione said, a bright smile on her face. "Okay, good."

"Why did you do it?" Draco shifted his posture, his hands dug into the deep pockets of his robes. The white halls framed with portraits all stared at them, the girl with blue robes and a braid of brown and silver.

Unfamiliar; no pedigree, no lineage.

But Draco saw Hermione Granger, the clever girl with tear-stained cheeks. He was too tired for their history or for their tension. All he wanted was his cigarette.

“Why hug me?”

"It seemed like the thing to do."

"Did it?" Draco asked, his voice low.

"But I wanted to apologize as you froze. I thought I overstepped."

"You didn't," Draco shook his head as he traced the portraits with his eyes. Each sat frozen, with matched horror in their eyes.

Hermione worried on the spot, her hands bunched by her stomach.

"What did Weasley do?" He asked, his gaze landed on her like lead weight with how much she dipped beneath it. “To make you cry,” he added as if the question wasn’t clear on its own.

"There's a Veela downstairs," she snorted. "He told her he was single — which, he is now."

Draco laughed against his instincts, warmth spread across his face.

"It isn't funny," Hermione snapped her hands to her sides.

"It is, a little — to be so weak-willed that you flirt with a Veela when he has you."

Hermione frowned at him as if there were an insult buried in his words. And perhaps there was if she looked far enough. He left it with her as he reached for her, to tuck a loose curl behind her ear.

"You're better off," he said in a cool voice.

He withdrew, to walk towards his favorite balcony. It was the one that overlooked the grounds, the same one that he'd first taken off with his broom. It was the closest to his room without being attached to his bedroom and — 

She was with him, her thin arms wrapped across the curve of her chest. Not that she had much in the way of a chest, not that he'd noticed, because he hadn't.

(And if he had, so what. They're tits, after all, it's only natural to glance at them.)

"I thought you didn't want to smoke."

"I don't," she said in a slow voice.

Draco didn't speak further as he might scare her off. If she wanted to see the view, he'd allow it. It wasn't as if she'd get to see it again.

The moon was visible in its first stage, on the way to filling for the full moon later in the month. Draco held the door open for her and followed after her once she was through. She had taken a moment to step through first.

He'd forgotten that his gentleman instincts weren't universal. She slummed with some of the crass, the ill-mannered — not that Draco acted with his best manners around her often.

It had been several years since school.

Hermione moved to the railing, to press her slight hands onto the stone.

He fished out his cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a flick of his fingers.

"Thank you," Hermione repeated. "For saying that he shouldn't have flirted with her."

"She's an eighth Veela, if that," Draco said with a wave of his hand. "So, if he's gawking at a girl and blaming her being barely Veela, he's looking for an excuse to wander."

Hermione grimaced.

Draco made an impassive face that suggested he was only being honest. He tapped his thumb against the side of his cigarette. "Dramatic of you to end it over such a thing."

"Hardly anything to end," Hermione huffed. "I've been so busy with the Ministry and he's taken on work with the joke shop. We saw each other twice a month if that. He’ll be happier without me, no doubt. He can do whatever he likes with whatever eighty Veela he so chooses.” Hermione dragged in a shaky breath, more from the unending tirade than anything else. 

Draco let her speak, more out of fear he'd say something cruel by mistake. Instead, he smoked in silence, his gaze settled somewhere above the hedge maze. If you watched closely enough, you could see it shift the solution.

It never stayed the same for more than ten minutes.

“It's been a long time coming."

Her eyes remained shut as she leaned into the wind, her hair pulled back into her ornate braid. He used this time while she was quiet to watch her, fingers framed around black tobacco paper. He had never had quiet time with Granger, save for their shared study hall in their Eighth year. They'd even exchanged notes on occasion, though it had been with great hesitation. 

But he hadn't been outright cruel to her since their Fifth year, though he had every reason to be. She had helped put his father into Azkaban, but he could play that game for hours. He could blame, and blame, and end up alone.

So instead he smoked in silence, his gaze dark in the moonlight.

“Thank you for hosting this evening,” Hermione said in a shaky breath. “I should have said that earlier.”

“It was mandated, but you’re welcome,” Draco gestured with his cigarette. The black paper wrapped around purple tobacco that smelt of vanilla and cinnamon. "Are you enjoying the evening otherwise?" 

"No," Hermione said with a bright laugh. "Not at all."

"Well, neither am I," Draco said in a tense voice.

"Not even now?" Hermione asked with a wry smile.

"No," Draco said, his voice softer. "Being with you is a lowlight, to be sure."

"Yes," Hermione pushed away from the railing, her lips curled. "Alone time with you. Awful."

"As if I'm any happier for it," he said, his voice graveled from the smoke. "A miserable know-it-all, moping on my balcony."

"Oh I'm sorry," Hermione scoffed. "I hadn't realized this was your personal moping balcony."

Draco took a deep drag from his cigarette before he flicked it away. It disappeared midair through a flick of his wrist, his lips curled at the edges.

"Are you going back downstairs?"

"In a minute," Draco said, his gaze turned down at her.

It started with her hands on his robes. She'd reached out to mend them as ashes had landed on the silk, though the black hid the damage. She smoothed her hand over it to repair the burns, her fingers gentle as she worked. But then there were no more ashes and no more excuses. He reached for her cheek and her hand, one after the other. He didn't know why, but he watched that bright, brilliant smile and he wanted a taste.

Just for now, even if it was just a kiss.

And she closed the gap on her tippy-toes, her chest pressed against his as her arms secured around his neck. He kissed her, no more than a peck, a cursory kiss to see what it'd be like.

The wide French doors remained open as the portraits gawked and squawked.

But Draco was busy, comforting the girl as his grandmother had told him to.

By the time he’d caught himself and come to his senses, he hadn’t the space to move away. She had pinned him against the low stone wall and impressed upon his space. Her mouth slotted against his and he isn’t quite sure whose idea this had been.

But then she rocked back, her brows furrowed and her lips drawn apart.

“That was definitely too far,” she said in a small voice. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why do you keep apologizing?”

“I hugged you, now I’ve kissed you,” she said, her voice uneven. “I’m sorry.”

Draco caught her jawline in the shallow curve of his hand, to bring her back into the kiss she’d retracted from. Because it’s only natural after all, to want a pretty girl who’s thrown herself at you. He shifted his hand into the coiled shape of her hair and the tight curve of her hip. He didn’t hesitate to shift their posture, to have her against the solid stone wall several feet back. The French doors remained fixed, open and wide, but at least the portraits couldn’t stare them down.

He’d never wanted to kiss her in any specific way. But now that he had, it was all he cared to do.

His hands remained against her hair and hip as the kiss sat between them, caution turned to confidence in the shadows. A sound much like a laugh came from Hermione, whose eyes were scrunched up against her pink cheeks.

Draco drew back enough to frown down at her which didn’t help.

“There’s a party downstairs,” she said, her voice the quietest he’d ever heard it.

“So?”

Hermione’s expression turned quizzical as her head tipped and her eyes remained narrowed. “Perhaps this is something we can talk about sober, later.” She pecked him once, twice, before she slid back towards the hallway.

“I’m not drunk,” Draco said, his head turned to watch her walk away.

“Neither am I,” Hermione caught the edge of the French doors, her gaze trained to his.

“Later… How much later?” Draco chewed his inner cheek, his hands locked behind his back.

“Monday night,” Hermione said with a nod. “If you’re free.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Draco gawked at her, his pace was broken as he jumped a few steps ahead of her. He walked backward, his hands deep in the pockets of his slacks.

“If you’re free.”

“And what if I’m not?” Draco said, his tone acidic.

Hermione gave a shrug, her bottom lip tugged between her teeth. She brushed past him without words, the din of the party louder now.

“Why wait three, four days?” Draco caught her elbow, a sharp look shot down at Hermione. “I’m free now. We could get some wine, go bond over… Books, whatever it is you like.”

“As tempting an offer as that is,” Hermione tugged her elbow free. “I broke up with Ron half an hour ago if that.”

“So — ”

“So Monday,” Hermione looked over him once, as if he might have dragged her back again. “Eight o’clock at the Three Broomsticks.”

And she headed off to the party downstairs as if they’d not kissed.

Draco had three days.


End file.
